The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  She was still dazed by what had erupted around her only minutes earlier, and a tangle of frenzied, jarring images flooded her mind. She settled back into the subdued normality of the comfortable car—the driver, who hardly spoke any English, had his radio on, piping mind-numbingly upbeat Arabic music around her, while Corben was on the phone with someone at the embassy—letting her mind settle down, until she found herself processing what had happened with more clarity. As the tightly packed, somewhat shabby stucco apartment buildings streamed by, she wondered where Ramez was being taken to. She pictured him in some grimy, windowless room somewhere—perhaps where Evelyn was being held too—and flashed forward to Farouk’s imminent phone call. She felt a sudden upwelling of worry as she played out its implications in her mind.

  She heard Corben end his phone call, and given that the taxi had been picked out randomly off the street and that the driver’s failed attempt at casual conversation had clearly shown how virtually nonexistent his English was, she felt it was safe to talk. She turned to Corben.

  “We need to find a way to warn Farouk,” she urged him. “If he calls Ramez, he’ll be walking into a trap.”

  “You’re assuming they know he’s expected to call him.”

  She hadn’t thought it through, but it seemed to make sense to her. “Why else would they grab him? The timing’s a bit too perfect for it to be just a coincidence, don’t you think? I mean, Ramez calls in to say he’s in touch with him, and boom, they show up and grab him?” The idea seeded her with more unease. She lowered her voice, feeling more aware of the driver’s presence. “Last night, you said you didn’t want to flag Ramez to the local cops. You must think the kidnappers have a mole at the station, right?”

  Corben glanced at the driver. Mia followed his gaze. The driver seemed to be uninterested.

  “I’d be amazed if they didn’t,” Corben said in a muted, unfazed tone.

  “Which means they know Farouk’s going to call him,” she pressed, whispering conspiringly now. “You need to do something to warn him. What about putting something out on the news? Get the main local stations to say that Ramez’s been kidnapped, maybe even give Farouk a signal to come in, to call the cops or—no,” she quickly corrected herself, “to call you, to call the embassy directly.”

  “If he finds out that Ramez’s been kidnapped,” Corben countered, “he’ll run. He’ll be so scared he won’t trust anyone. He’ll just disappear. And if he does, we’ll lose our only link to your mom.”

  “But he’ll be walking into a trap.”

  Corben’s expression suggested he had already thought of that. “Maybe we can use that.”

  Which took her aback. “What do you mean?”

  Corben hesitated. “I mean we might have a chance to get Farouk and flush these guys out at the same time.” He darted another glance at the driver. “Let’s not get into it right now.”

  She got his drift. She still didn’t think there was any risk in discussing it, but she relented and sat back in her chair and looked out her window, uncomfortable with the notion of using Farouk as bait.

  The taxi cruised along the seafront, past the new marina where gleaming hundred-foot yachts mingled uncomfortably with rickety wooden fishing boats, and onto the highway that led to East Beirut. The city bubbled on regardless, turning a jaded eye to the not-so-infrequent acts of violence that would have caused huge outrage in other countries. As the fruit and vegetable vendors rushed by, something kept nagging at her, the question that wouldn’t go away and that, once you got past the priority of getting Evelyn back, was really at the heart of everything that was happening.

  She turned to Corben again. “What is he after? What the hell does he want with some moldy old book?”

  “I don’t know,” Corben simply answered.

  “But you must have researched it. You must have some theory about what it’s about, what he’s looking for, don’t you?”

  Corben slid another glance in the driver’s direction, then looked at Mia. “Like I said. It’s not necessarily relevant.”

  “Not relevant?”

  “You’re trying to apply your logic, your way of thinking, to what maniacs like this guy are about,” he clarified. “But that’s not how it works. We’re talking about some very sick people here, guys who are certifiably insane. Saddam, his sons, his cousins…these guys lived in their own fantasy world. People’s lives had no value for them. You know those kids who get their kicks plucking wings off butteries or blowing up frogs with firecrackers? These guys are like that, only for them, humans are much more fun than frogs.”

  “Okay, I understand that, but I still don’t get his interest in ancient relics.”

  “It could be anything,” Corben replied. “Remember Mengele’s experiments? Hitler’s obsession with the occult? Maybe it’s some cult from history that he feels connected to. The key word here is insane. Once you factor that in, anything’s possible. There was a scientist working on a biological weapons program in South Africa a few years back, in the days of apartheid. You know what his pet project was? An ethnospecific bioweapon. He was developing a virus that would only kill black people. And that was after they’d started putting stuff in the water to make them infertile. And it’s doable. Anything’s doable when it comes to killing people. So you tell me. Is our guy after some ancient recipe for something, some virus, some old plague or poison that holds some poetic appeal to him? Or is he just some demented nut whose obsessiveness will help bring about his downfall? I’d go with the latter.”

  Mia thought about it for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t that relevant after all. The point was to free Evelyn and, as a bonus, take down the hakeem. Still, it was bugging her. “Iraq, Persia, that whole area’s got a rich history, medically speaking,” she noted, “but that was a thousand years ago.” Her brain was firing more efficiently now, and thinking about history and medicine nudged her into more comfortable and familiar territory, a theoretical, problem-solving mind-set that helped move her away from the harsh reality she’d been sucked into. She also found solace in the notion that perhaps this was where she could be useful.

  “Do you know how old the book is?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She frowned, deep in thought. An idea surfaced. “I’ve been working with a historian on my project out here. This guy—his name’s Mike Boustany—he’s a walking encyclopedia when it comes to this region. Maybe if I showed him the Polaroids, he could give us an idea of how old the books are.”

  Corben grimaced. “I’m not sure we’re ready to show them around. Not while this is in play.”

  “I’m sure he can be discreet if we ask him to.” Mia could see that Corben wasn’t convinced. “We need to explore every angle, don’t we? Evelyn would want us to.”

  Corben held her gaze for a beat. “Sure, why not,” he relented. “Knock yourself out. But I’d like you to think about something else. I want you to reconsider leaving the country.” She opened her mouth to object, but he raised his hands to pause her. “I know you feel you need to be here, and that’s normal. I wanted you here too, I thought you might remember something that could be important. But this is snowballing out of control. I know you want to do everything you can to help get your mom back, but realistically, I don’t think there’s anything more you can do. These guys were prepared to kill you today. You need to think about your safety. We can keep you safe, but…I can’t guarantee anything. I’m not saying you need to go far, but even Cyprus would be better than here. I just need you to think about that, alright?”

  Mia felt a tightening in her chest. She knew she’d already used up whatever karmic goodwill she had coming to her in the last couple of days. Staying on was simply tempting fate, and, thinking about it, his suggestion, however deflating, made perfect sense to her. But then again, it wasn’t about rational thinking. She couldn’t leave. It was as simple as that. She knew she wasn’t safe here; she wasn’t even sure she had anything to contribute to finding her mom. But she was part of it. She
felt connected not just to Evelyn, but to Ramez and Farouk and their struggle for survival. She felt connected to the city and to its people, and—there was no denying it—to the perverse and dangerous visceral elation that coursed through her when bullets were flying and when she was running for her life.

  Beset by a confusing cocktail of dismay and relief, unsure about which instinct to follow, she looked at Corben. “Just do your best then,” she finally muttered, not really wanting to debate the issue right now. “I can’t ask for more.”

  “You got it.” He paused, then nodded reassuringly. “We’ll get her back.”

  She knew it wasn’t a certainty. Far from it.

  The odds were against it.

  A deep sense of loss swooped down on her, and she turned and looked out the window as the city flew past her in a sun-drenched concrete blur.

  Chapter 36

  C orben found Mia a workstation in a small, unoccupied room by the press office, where she could make her calls and use the Internet.

  He told her that given the urgency of Farouk’s expected call and the live state of play, he’d have someone arrange for her to stay at a hotel or in an embassy safe house, and that he’d have someone watching over her in either case. He’d also have her stuff sent over from his apartment as soon as he had a chance to go there himself, but that in the meantime, to let him know if there was anything she needed.

  He left her in the annex and crossed the courtyard leading to the main villa and the ambassador’s office.

  The thought of Mia discussing the Polaroids with her historian colleague flashed through his mind. It worried him slightly, but he didn’t think it was avoidable. He would have preferred it if she’d agreed to leave the country. The hakeem and his men weren’t pulling punches, regardless of the fallout. And aside from her being able to positively identify Farouk, Corben didn’t really think she could bring anything more to the table. Still, he knew she’d be staying. And it aroused mixed feelings inside him.

  Despite the context, he’d enjoyed her company. She was good-looking and smart, and she was American. It made a change from the local casual companions he’d been hooking up with since he’d been posted to this little corner of the planet. Beirut didn’t lack in women—far from it, in fact, due to the huge number of men who left the country in search of a decent paycheck and a slightly reduced risk of death by shrapnel—and Corben was an attractive, available man. And with sexual electricity bouncing off the walls all across the city due to the constant—and in the case of the previous summer, realized—threat of war, his dance card was pretty well filled. But the job meant that his personal life had its limitations. Casual encounters never went beyond just that, and he knew nothing would have come out of being with Mia either, even if this thing hadn’t erupted around them. Which suited him fine.

  He wasn’t exactly a nesting kind of guy.

  He climbed the stairs that led up to the ambassador’s office. Although he would have preferred not to waste time on such a meeting now, he had to brief his boss on the morning’s events. He didn’t really want to confer with anyone at the embassy at all, but he couldn’t avoid the meeting. The shoot-out had been too visible, too glaring to be sidelined. So he was annoyed to discover that, as well as the head of station, the ambassador and Kirkwood would also be attending. He knew the next few hours were critical, and the last thing he needed was any unwarranted interference.

  He was let in immediately, greeted the men, and took a seat facing the ambassador’s desk.

  He weighed his words carefully. Which wasn’t a problem.

  It was second nature to him.

  He told them about Ramez’s abduction, painting Farouk as a dealer-turned-smuggler who knew Evelyn and had sought her help in selling the relics. He left out any mention of the book, and of its the connection to the hakeem, and surmised that some rival smugglers who were after the hoard had Evelyn and were after Farouk too. He told them about the call at noon, and about what he planned to do to try to get to Farouk first, in the hope of finding out who had Evelyn and having some leverage over getting her back.

  None of this was ideal. He didn’t really want any interference. Even less ideal was that he wasn’t sure about Kirkwood. The man’s abrupt arrival and his keen interest had triggered some warning bells inside Corben, ones he had long ago learned to trust. He sensed the man was keeping something from them.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to look into it now.

  FROM A WINDOW on the first floor, Kirkwood watched Corben head back to the annex.

  He was already at the embassy when the call had come in informing the ambassador of the armed attack outside the university.

  Another overt attempt, in broad daylight and in a crowded part of town this time.

  Things were spiraling out of control.

  He had to move with care.

  Corben had walked him down to his office after their initial meeting with the ambassador the day before. He’d sensed that Corben wasn’t going to be particularly open or forthcoming, but then he expected that, given what the man did for a living. Obfuscation and deceit were to be expected. These guys couldn’t even share information with other law enforcement agencies. Still, Corben had agreed to let him check out the Polaroids, and seeing the photo of the codex had confirmed his suspicions. The two events—the call from the scout in Iraq, out of the blue, a little over a week ago, telling him about the book, and Evelyn’s call to the Haldane switchboard, five days later—were connected.

  He played things out in his mind and didn’t doubt that whoever had kidnapped Evelyn Bishop was after the same thing he was. Someone else out there had, somehow, found out about it and was clearly willing to do whatever it took to get his hands on it.

  Which complicated matters for Kirkwood.

  He had some strong cards to play. But they involved trade-offs, and besides, he wasn’t sure he’d be given a chance to play them.

  He pulled out his mobile phone and, making sure no one was within earshot, hit a speed-dial key. It took a few seconds for the signal to bounce off a couple of satellites before the slightly crackly, foreign ring-tone whined through. Two rings and it was answered by a man with a beefy, throaty voice.

  “How’s it going?” Kirkwood asked.

  “Fine, fine. It took a bit longer than expected to get across the border. So many people trying to get out of here. But it’s fine now. I’m on the way.”

  “So we’re still on schedule?”

  “Of course. I should be there in a few hours. We’re still meeting tomorrow night, as agreed?”

  Kirkwood wondered whether a change of plans was merited, but decided to stick with what they’d agreed. The timing was probably right anyway, and besides, he didn’t really see a shortcut that didn’t present dangers or complications. “Yes. I’ll see you there. Any problems, you call me immediately.”

  “There won’t be any problems,” the man answered cockily.

  Kirkwood hung up, wondering if he’d made the right decision.

  He looked out the window and thought back to Mia Bishop. He’d watched her earlier as she’d followed Corben into the annex.

  The firmness in her step surprised him, given what she’d just been through. He wondered what was going through her mind, how she felt about being dragged into this. More important, he knew she was the last person to see her mother. How close were they? Did Evelyn confide in her? Was the young geneticist telling Corben everything she knew?

  He needed to talk to her.

  Preferably, without Corben present.

  Chapter 37

  C orben hurried up the stairs to the third floor, headed for the communications office. It was past nine thirty, and Farouk’s call was due in a under three hours’ time.

  He’d already called Olshansky from the car and told him to start working on the tap.

  The briefing hadn’t gone too badly. They were letting him get on with things, which was all he needed right now. Kirkwood had sat back and hadn
’t asked any obtrusive questions.

  He found Olshansky in his batcave, sitting in front of an array of three flat-screens. Muffled sounds and the occasional garbled voice were coming from the computer’s speakers. The middle screen had a number of open windows. One of them was a rolling graphic display of a waveform plotting the noise. Under it was what looked like an on-screen synthesizer, which Olshansky was manipulating using the keyboard.

  “How are we doing?” Corben asked.

  Olshansky didn’t look up, his eyes riveted to the screens. “I’ve managed to download the rover into his phone, but so far, I think it’s still stashed in someone’s pocket. It’s just garbled mumbo jumbo.”

  Olshansky’s predecessor had hacked into the computers of Lebanon’s two cell-phone service providers without too much difficulty. Having a few of its employees on the payroll probably helped. Corben was hoping to use that access to listen in on what was going on within the pickup range of the microphone on Ramez’s cell phone, using a “roving bug,” a remotely activated wiretap. The technology was alarmingly simple.

  Most cell-phone users didn’t realize that their phones weren’t necessarily fully powered down, even if they were switched off. You just needed to set the alarm on your phone for a time when it’s switched off and watch it light up to see that. The FBI, working with the NSA, had devised a surveillance technique—though it denied any existence of it—that allowed it to remotely download eavesdropping software onto most cell phones. This software would then enable the phone’s mike to be switched on and off on its own, anytime, remotely and surreptitiously, effectively turning the phone into a bug, whether the phone was powered up or not. They didn’t even need to have physical access to the phone to set it up. It was a clever evolution of an old and simple technique that was pioneered by the KGB, which involved upping the voltage on a landline just enough to activate the phone’s mike even when it was on the hook.